Unskilledwords

  Just Home and Love the words are small Four little letters into each; And yet you will not find in all The wide and gracious range of speech To more so tenderly complete: When angels talk in heaven above,  I'm sure they have no words more sweet Than Home and Love. Just Home and Love! It's hard to guess Which of the two were best to gain; Home without Love is bitterness,  Love without home is often pain. No! each alone will seldom do Somehow they travel hand and glove; If you win one you must have two,  Both Home and Love.  And if you've both, well than I'm sure  You ought to sing the whole day long; It doesn't matter if you're poor  With these to make divine your song. And so I praisefullly repeat,  When angels talk in heaven above; There are no words more simply sweet, There are no words more simply sweet,  Than Home and Love.                       By Robert William Service Follow us on Instagram- @unskilledwords.  Facebook- unskilledwords.          Thank you

Fame is a food that dead men eat,              I have no stomach for such meat.    In little light and narrow room, They eat it in the silent tomb, With no kind voice of comrade near To bid the banquet be of cheer. But friendship is a nobler thing; Of Friendship it is good to sing.  For truly, when a man shall end, He lives in memory of his friend,  Who doth his better part recall, And of his faults make funeral.                                                       By Henry Austin Dobson  Follow us on Instagram- @unskilledwords  Facebook - unskilledwords.         Thank You. 

Give to me the life I love,   Let the lave go by me,  Give the jolly heaven above   And the byway night me.  Bed in the bush with stars to see,  Bread I dip in the river — There's the life for a man like me,  There's is the life for ever. Let the blow fall soon or late,   Let what will be over me; Give the face of earth around   And the road before me. Wealth I seek not, hope nor love,   Nor a friend to know me; All I seek, the heaven above   And the road below me.  Or let autumn fall on me   Where a field I linger, Silencing the bird on tree,  Biting the blue finger; White as meal the frosty field —  Warm the fireside heaven — Not to autumn will I yield,   Not to winter even! Let the blow fall soon or late,  Let what will be over me; Give the face of earth around,   And the road before me.  Wealth I ask not, hope nor love,   Not a friend to know me. All I ask,  the heaven above   And the road below me.                       By Robert Louis Stevenson  Follow us on Instagram- @u